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I've always been fascinated by so-called "theological thrillers" like The Order or The Exorcist or any other thriller about God, the Devil and the angels and demons. But I also wanted to write about priests as people. So, I started writing this sort of gothic novel about a middle-aged priest going on a journey with a heroin addict. They're going to the house of some crazy person for something. I don't know what yet. It's going to be like a road novel about the occult. Feel free to criticize:
The first thing the priest does is light a smoke. He breathes it and lets it linger in his lungs, enjoying it, because that’s all he has left, the simpler pleasures. He allows the smoke to leave his chest slowly, letting it haze the air in front of him. He says, “Damn” and nobody says anything otherwise.
He kneels down at the side of the bed and squints; his eyesight isn’t too good anymore. He’s too vain to wear glasses, but he really should. He knows it. The room is dark and that’s not helping anything.
He perches the cigarette on his lips, and with both hands, searches for a pulse on the man lying on the bed. The neck is cold and this tells him enough, so he stands up and plucks the smoke off his lips and he tells the other men in the room, “Yeah.”
Nobody says anything, and he decides to continue talking. “He’s dead. Too late. Sorry.” He coughs and sticks the cigarette back in his mouth.
The smallest man in the room says, “Father. Please. Is there nothing-”
“Nothing,” the priest interrupts. He walks past the group of men and opens the grey door, letting the yellow light splash onto the floor of the dark room. He sucks on the smoke some more and scratches his stubble.
“Father,” says somebody behind him.
“What?”
“Father. What should we do?” the small man asks, trying to keep up with the priest.
“I don’t know.”
“Is there no verse that can-”
“No.”
“Father,” the man whines. The priest stops and turns to the small man. He lets loose a grey cloud of smoke and it collapses in the air between them. The small man waves it away and says, “Well?”
“You know my brand. Have it on my desk.” The priest drops the cigarette onto the dirty tiles and turns away. If he gets home fast enough, he might be able to steal a couple hours of sleep. If he’s fast. But he’s a little older now, and running to catch the subway isn’t much of an option anymore. Take a cab, he thinks. I deserve it. He walks up the stairs slowly, wheezing a little from the smoke, and maybe the fact that he’s out of shape. Once at the top of the stair, he pushes open the door and he’s not surprised at the fact the stars are still out. He is surprised that he can see the stars. That’s something new.
He waves down a cab and it screeches to a halt a couple steps away from him. The priest gets in and tells the driver where to go – his church. It’s a fifteen minute drive. Maybe longer if they hit morning traffic. Maybe less. It’s still early.
Father Maturin sits down at his desk and he’s tired. He didn’t sleep. How could he? With the sirens? And the yelling? And the phone? He picks up the package on the desk and looks at the address. Yep, it’s his name. Charlie Maturin. No return address, though. Of course. Why would anybody bother?
The room is dark, but brown. The shelves are full. Books, journals, bottles. He shakes a smoke out of the carton and puts it in its familiar place. He lights it with that old Zippo his assistant, now since dead. After the clink of the lighter and the old familiar flame, he’s breathing in the smoke.
He rips the package open. He pulls out a brown book and a letter. He flips through the book first. It’s blank, of course. He unfolds the letter. Just a name – Radcliffe.
Leaning forward, he pulls the phone off the hook and he dials a number. He waits until somebody answers.
“Hello?” Groggy, harsh, just woken up.
“Machen. Are you up?”
“Charlie? What time is it?”
“Six. Are you up?”
“I am now. Mercy. What do you want?”
“Check your mail yet?”
“No. I just – I just woke up. What’s going on?”
“Check your mail. I’ll wait.”
“Okay.”
He sucks on the smoke. His stomach grumbles. He waits.
“Yeah, so?” Machen comes back.
“You gotta package? A book? Blank? Letter? A name?”
“Yeah, so?” he repeats.
“What’s the name?”
“Radcliffe. So, what?”
“Meet me at Wilde’s. We’ll have some breakfast.”
Machen sighs. “Sure. Half an hour.”
Maturin hangs up and he rubs his grey stubble. He stands up and flips through the book again, hoping to find something, but, of course, he finds nothing. There’s not a single drop of ink in this whole tome, and he expects nothing. So the priest opens the drawer on the desk, the topmost drawer, and he pulls out a flask. He unscrews the top and puts it upside down over his mouth, letting something drop onto his tongue. It’s good. He seals the flask and puts it into his overcoat, which he slings over his shoulder. It’s not cold enough for the coat, but it will be soon.
He pushes open the door and hears the familiar jingle of the bell. Some girl at the counter pouring coffee says his name, but he ignores it. He scans the orange and brown restaurant for Machen, but he sees nothing. He has the book and the letter in his coat and he sits down in a booth, putting the coat beside him. He rubs his stubble and scratches the top of his thinning hair. The waitress comes by and asks if he wants some coffee.
“Yeah. Black.”
Two minutes later, a steaming cup of black is in front of him, and he pours a little from the flask into the mug. After stirring it, he drops the spoon down with a loud clang. Nobody looks his way.
Machen sits down suddenly, and he says, “So?”
“This morning,” Maturin starts, “I was called to the apartment of some guy. Some guy who had a little too much horse. His friends wanted Last Rites, or something. Nothing I could do.”
“Yeah?”
“When I got to the office, package there for me. Opened it. Just a book and a letter. You bring it?”
“Yeah.”
The waitress pops by. “You want some coffee?”
“Yeah,” Machen answers. He looks back to the priest.
“I didn’t think I’d ever hear from Radcliffe again. Hell, I thought he was dead. Then I get this.”
“Okay, Charlie. What’s your point? I got Mass in twenty minutes. I have to dress. Shower. Shave, even. You might try that yourself.”
“Radcliffe sent us this. You don’t care?”
Machen sighs. “No, Charlie. I don’t care. I don’t give a shit. He was just some guy.”
“You think?”
“You get yourself all worked up when you see a dead guy. When was the last time you confessed?”
Maturin grimaces. “Don’t give me the priest thing.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Well, don’t.”
The coffee comes by and Machen pours a ton of cream into it. He sips at it and says, “This is shit coffee.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I admit. The book is weird, but then again, Radcliffe was always a weird guy. Used to read all those Gnostic shit. Read the banned stuff. You know how it was.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, Charlie. Why don’t you just go over there and find out what he wants? He’s probably just all worked up over some verse. It’s probably nothing.”
“But the book-”
“Charlie. I have to go. Call me when you talk to him.” Machen stands up and drops a five on the table. He shuffles into a black coat and then he shuffles away from the table. Maturin gulps down his coffee and adds a dollar.
He pushes himself up from the table and groans. It’s getting harder every damn day to stand up. It’s enough to make a man drink, he thinks. He gets into the open air, into the yellow yolk of the sunlight and feels that headache come. All that noise. All that yelling. All that traffic.
He steps into the parking lot filled with trucks and SUVs and he makes his way to the street. He can’t afford to take another cab, so he heads to the subway entrance. He reaches the crosswalk and presses the button to cross. The cars fly past him in a constant river of metal, and he rubs his stubble again. He looks up to the orange and yellow and red sky and he groans. It’s a bright one and he left his sunglasses at the office.
“Father?” asks somebody behind him.
The priest lowers his gaze from the sky. He turns. “Shelley. How are you?”
“Fine, Father,” responds the young man. He scratches at his arm concealed by a leather jacket. He scratches at his all the time.
“How’s your mother?” Maturin asks.
“She’s fine, Father. She’s fine.”
“What can I do for you, Shelley?” the priest asks.
The young man laughs. “Always to the point, huh? I need some help. I-”
Maturin takes his crumpled package of smokes out and shakes one into his mouth. Shelley reaches into his leather jacket and pulls out a Zippo. He leans forward and flicks it on, lighting the priest’s smoke.
“Listen, Father. I need some financial help. You need some help, too. I’m offering a deal.”
“What kind?”
“A guide. To Radcliffe’s.”
Maturin smiles and inhales. “How’d you know about Radcliffe?”
“Everybody knows, Father.”
“I bet,” he laughs. Then he coughs.
“It’s a rough path, Father. I’ll be your Virgil.”
“What do you know about it, Shelley?”
“Hey,” the man grins, “you gotta know the way down to get back up.”
“Alright. How much is this going to cost me?”
“I just need a little something. You know.” Shelley scratches his arm again. And again.
Maturin looks up to the sky again. The red’s dissipating. The blue’s making its appearance. He looks down to Shelley and says, “Sure. Let’s go.” |
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